


Time and Saints

by Anonymous



Category: Merlin (TV) RPF
Genre: Blasphemy, Catholic Character, Condoms, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Penis Size, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Safer Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-24
Updated: 2014-02-24
Packaged: 2018-01-13 14:01:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1229095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are saints for every occasion, as any good Catholic knows. But Colin's not exactly a good Catholic, and just who the feck do you pray to when the condom is too small?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Time and Saints

**Author's Note:**

> Edited repost of a work originally written for the KMM#17 prompt: _RPF, Bradley/Colin. The condom is too small. One of them has a really thick dick._ A PWP that went to France under implausible pretences, had some wine, and fell in a puddle of feelings. Includes swearing, some mild rudeness towards the French, and Colin being a very, very irreverent Catholic. All lies and no profits. Et voilà!

* * *

'Fecking – '

' _Fuck._ '

'Bradley, it won't… It's gonna – '

Colin swears again as the tight roll of latex gives up, slips out of his jittery fingers – too slick with lube, with sweat, with desperation – and pops off the crown of Bradley's cock. 

Bradley is propped up on one elbow, watching, breathing heavy through clenched teeth and holding himself steady at the base. They've already wasted two of the precious three, Colin inadvertently tearing one with his teeth in his haste to rip the packet open and Bradley's cock splitting the second, jerking and surging up just as Colin was trying to force the thing over his swollen glans. 

'Shit, Cols, did it break again? Tell me it didn't bre– '

'No!' Colin says, not knowing for shit but saying so because it has to be true, _has_ to be, as he scrabbles for the wilted little cap. 

Here, back in France, the main gang all together at last for the promised reunion special after months of schedule wrangling, uncomfortable meetings and irate phone calls, he's finally found the courage to confess. And surely telling _one_ man, one of your for-life-if-not-for-every-day mates that you want to be with him as much as is practically possible for two actors, and yes, _definitely_ in the mortal sin sense of things – make mine a double on that, please – should have been easier than telling Fathers Lavery, O'Connell _and_ Reid that you might, just possibly, never think about girls while you wank, but no, it really wasn't; he's been spooling it out, tripping over it for days now, _years_ according to Angel and Eoin and Katie and…

Colin finally gets hold of the condom the right way round. He holds it up to the light by the rolled edges and blows out the tip, squinting at it, praying, trying to remember his saints other than the obvious ones, the ones thumped into his skull, because Jude's for lost causes, Columba's boring, Patrick's gone over to the Yanks and Brigit's got loads on her shoulders but nothing that wants thinking on when he's planning on impaling himself on another man's cock.

Bradley's cock. Bradley's beautiful, meaty, _shocking_ grower-not-shower that he's seen and not seen before in a casual sense, but never _seen,_ never known the full truth of.

And it's almost past belief, that at fecking last he's got Bradley now and here. He's bared himself body and soul to do it, too, let him rummage in the darkest corners, shine his light on the most shameful of Colin's secrets, so if he doesn’t get Bradley's cock in him soon, he thinks he might die. 

Headline: Morgan collapses at the starting line. To the rest of his life. Fecking grand, so.

Colin crows in triumph when he finds nary a pinhole, remembers what his brother's mates used to say. 'Oh thank you, _thank you_ ugly Drogo and dirty old Vitalis!' 

'Colin, what on earth – '

'It's fine. It's good. Here, lay back, let me – ' Colin wipes his hands, one at a time, off on his own thighs, holding the condom gingerly between forefinger and thumb. 

Bradley makes a frustrated sound but lets go of his dick and collapses back, chest and belly heaving like they had earlier after running up the castle steps – like they had on that long-ago day when they'd finally been allowed to run the horses at full gallop across an open field, no lunge lines, no trainers alongside. They'd caught one another's eyes and Bradley had laughed, had whooped like a schoolboy, startling the same sounds from Colin's chest, raw joy like a flock of starlings swirling in a funnel cloud up towards the sun. 

And after, legs shaky from more than the ride. Legs shaky from the _oh shit_ of it, from the doom of realising _exactly_ what he wanted. Clear as day and just as clearly impossible.

Colin winces at the memory, sucks in a breath because it literally _hurts,_ how much time they've wasted.

'Colin?' Bradley grits out. 'Oh god, Cols, not now. Stop it. No more upstairs brain. Use the one between your legs.'

'Sorry, sorry.' Colin reaches for Bradley's cock with his free hand. The warm life of it, the look of it blood-dark and straining into his grip, is like an anchor. He takes a steadying breath and lines Bradley up with the pinched tip of the condom. 

It's a sloppy kiss, the one between latex and skin. Bradley's cockhead is shiny with lube and the clear slick he's been leaking ever since Colin rubbed him earlier, mouthed at him through his briefs as they'd stripped, mumbling about all the times he'd longed to lean in when Merlin was on his knees to Arthur or behind him in tunnels – all the times when Bradley's lap or backside was within face-reach – to catch the scent of him there. 

He is a disgusting boy, he knows this, the kind who tastes his own come, his own arse, and not just the once to satisfy curiosity. And he's fine with this, has been for ages, but more importantly – and miraculously – so is Bradley, and Colin is shivering now, feels too impatient for the boundaries of his own skin. 

He tells himself to slow down though. Haste makes waste.

Haste is what's brought them to this – haste, poor planning and a severely depleted condom dispenser in the club toilets. Or Bradley's abysmal grasp of French. He's still not clear on the details.

With a trembling right hand he holds the condom in place and inches the fingers of his left up Bradley's shaft to grasp the edges of it. He tells himself that latex is stretchy – that that's the whole point – and that he won't actually die in the time it takes to get the fecking thing onto Bradley's cock.

Except.

Except, stretchy of no, the condom's too _small_ and Bradley is too… Well, not big overall, as Colin's seen bigger – is himself longer – but christ is it _thick._ It is a positively chubby dick. Broad. Blunt.

The girth of it makes Colin's mouth water, makes his belly squirm, remembering with a lick of shame-delight the sharp, dizzying pleasure of discovering that there was a whole wide online world of people who liked being stuffed full, liked watching something so impossibly fat worked into an opening so impossibly small, liked the feeling of being stretched to the limit, like they couldn’t move nor breathe for gagging on it, whether up above or down below. 

'Cols, hurry up.'

'Quit moving.'

' 'M not moving.'

'Hold your breath then, just for a sec.' 

'Jesus, _Colin._ '

'Just do it,' he pleads. 'Bradley, please. I think I can just – '

He's got the tip stretched over the broadest flare of the glans and thinks it's working this time, is coaxing the snug roll of latex to keep going, that's it, just a little further and…

Bradley hisses. 'That pinches.' 

Colin glances up, sees the grimace on his face. His stomach's hollowed out, muscles taut from holding still. 

'Almost there,' he says. He wraps his whole hand round it now, smoothing the translucent casing as far as it will go down the swollen shaft. It's a bit obscene, the sight of that fat, ruddy cock stuffed into such a snug little wrapper, standing up stiff and proud, looking all out of proportion to Bradley's balls even though they're of a good size themselves, a heavy, dusky pink handful now drawn up into a taut swell of pebbled skin. 

It's fecking _gorgeous._

'No, seriously, it's too tight. ' Bradley says, pulling his dick from Colin's grasp. 'Here, let go. Let me.'

Colin does, looking around for where he'd tossed the lube. He squeezes out what's left in the packet and is kneeling up, legs spread, already working two fingers in and out and debating whether he can skip three and go straight to _that cock_ if Bradley holds still and Colin's patient with himself, and that's when it happens: Bradley tries adjusting the condom, rolling it partway up and trying to make more room at the tip; then he smooths it down, still wincing a bit, and the tip just… 

Well suddenly it's not there anymore. Engorged wet flesh bursts through the latex barrier, blooming sudden and surreal like a time-lapse nature video.

'Fuck!'

'No,' Colin cries, clenching round his fingers, reaching for Bradley's cock with his other hand, he doesn’t know what for – out of sheer lust, perhaps he _could_ do magic. Stop time. Rewind. Summon a shower of appropriately-sized prophylactics from thin French air. Chance would be a fine thing, Morgan.

They both pause, panting, staring at one another until it's gone beyond dismay to tragedy to something approaching farce. 

Then Bradley works the remains of the condom off and flings it away with a vehement, 'Fucking useless! What kind of club only carries bloody _close fit_? Have we found the vale of skinny-dicked Frenchmen?'

'Maybe all the large get used up,' Colin says, gazing forlornly at Bradley's erection, fingers still rubbing slowly at his own insides, not quite ready to face facts.

Bradley snorts. He sits up, rubbing hard at his forehead, running his hands through his hair and muttering, 'So we've found the vale of big-dicked Frenchmen then. Hurrah.'

'I could still suck you.' It comes out quiet, desperate. 'Can I?'

Bradley's balls twitch and his dick jumps, but he shakes his head, glaring at Colin from between spread fingers.

'Not until you come, just a wee bit, just until I – '

'Christ, you really want to… You could get off on that?' Bradley watches Colin, their gazes shifting downward together, towards where Colin's free hand hovers between Bradley's cock and his own. 

Colin swallows, licks his lips. 

In the club, a bit loose from a few glasses of wine but mostly caught up in the pulsing honesty of being there, together and on purpose, _with_ purpose, with music pounding in their ears and snaking down their spines and the glittering lights sliding off the planes of Bradley's happy face, he'd scooted nearer across the sticky vinyl, put his lips to Bradley's ear and listed the details on the general invite, all the things he's been wanting. 

Or half of them, at least. At least one quarter. The list seems to be growing now he's actually got Bradley's kit off, seen the state of him spread out on a bed and all in a bother.

'Wasn't telling a lie earlier, what I said.'

'Yes, but – '

'You don’t like it?'

'Don't like how it seems like such a chore. With me. Because I'm…' 

Bradley's voice sounds strained and Colin glances up. 'Wouldn't be, I swear it. Not for me. Jesus, Bradley, if you'd let me, I'd have you like that seven nights a week plus Sunday matinees, and you'd see how much I love it. You'd see it all over your legs, your sheets… hell, even your floor if – '

'Christ.' Bradley blows out a breath, eyes fixed on where Colin's made the selfish choice and is now fondling his own cock and balls, nothing serious, just a rub and squeeze to cheer the fellas up, let them know they haven't been abandoned.

'Mmm. D'you know, there would have been a sixth series if they'd caved earlier and put that in our contracts?'

'What?!'

'The cocksucking, Bradley. Keep up. It's the only reason I agreed to this little _Merlin_ reunion special. It's written in our contracts, I get to suck you off whenever and wherever I like.'

Bradley's brows climb. 'Thought it was the free trip to France, plus teasing Katie up close about going ginger, completing her own sell-out hat trick?'

'That too. But mostly – ' Colin lets go of himself, ease his fingers out and wipes them on the flannel he'd hoped to be using by now to mop his own come off Bradley's chest. ' – for this.' 

He straddles one of Bradley's legs and leans down, letting his dick drag against leg hair, then lodge against firm muscle; he cards his fingers through the hair at Bradley's groin, giving his balls the same friendly hello he'd given himself while he works up enough spit to overwhelm the chemical traces of whatever foul industrial lube was on the condoms. 

However, before he gets in a single lick, Bradley's got a firm grip on his chin, is pulling his head up. 

'Still not safe though,' he says, and though there's some big-brother grit to the words Colin can see by Bradley's eyes and the way he's breathing, by the catch and swallow of his Adam's apple and the puzzled furrow between his brows that he really wants to give in, that he _will_ if Colin pushes – will maybe think a little less of Colin later, will maybe even be angry with him – but will go along with it now because Colin's the one driving this thing tonight.

So Colin closes his eyes, tells himself he's better than this, that _this_ is already better than anything – being here naked with Bradley, both of them free and willing, every last petty thing out in the open – and that there will be a tomorrow where they can search out a proper pharmacy; that if he plays this right there will be a whole bright dazzle of days, sprinkled like diamonds throughout the calendar year, where he and Bradley won't be on separate continents or separate sets, in separate cities or in separate flats, under the thumb of separate commitments, but in a bed just like this one, vast with possibilities. And on those days they will tell their work and their families and their mates – the whole fecking world, if need be – to do one, and leave them alone to make up for lost time.

'Hey,' Bradley says, waggling Colin's chin. 'Hey, Cols, come back to me.'

Colin open his eyes, says, 'Rain check?' as cheeky as he's able and basks in the steady spread of Bradley's smile.

'Too right. Now get your scrawny arse up here and give us a cuddle.'

'But – ' he begins as he surges up and settles in, still eyeing Bradley's erection with longing.

'Hush. I know it's not what you… we can use our hands for now, yeah? Then in the morning, when we've both got a bit of blood back in our brains, we can – '

'Ask the concierge how to say Magnum in French? Extra wide? Super luxe?' Colin reaches down and grasps Bradley's cock, strangling the root of it and tugging a little on the slick satiny skin above. Bradley's speech falters. He mumbles something, butting his head into Colin's shoulder, hips already turning towards Colin like a rudder, thrusting, seeking.

'What was that?' Colin whispers in his ear, nudging his own cock into Bradley's hot, fumbling hand.

' 'S just gonna use Google Translate, at the shops. But.' Bradley ignores Colin's cock in favour of grabbing his thigh, slinging it over his own as he presses in, slotting his leg between Colin's and bringing cocks and hands and bellies, taint and balls and thighs into a mashed-up, potentially-perilous but undeniably _brilliant_ alignment that promises lots of friction, whatever else happens.

'But?'

'Move,' Bradley says, mouthing now at Colin's neck. 'Please, Colin, just… shut up and _move._ '

There is a moment in the sweaty heaven of pull and thrust where Colin's mind starts to drift; he starts to wonder if there is a patron saint of girthy cocks or loving so hard, so viscerally, that it can feel like you're choking even when said cock is nowhere near your mouth. But Bradley's so near and so warm, smells like himself even through the veneer of club funk, beer sweat and hotel lavender sheet spray, and Colin's so close, so _very_ close, Bradley rutting himself against Colin's hand and cock both, alternately gripping his hip and palming his arse. Then he reaches down behind, rubs a finger over Colin's hole, huffs out what might be a question, to which Colin grunts his enthusiastic approval.

Bradley breaches him swiftly, just the one finger, but curled just right, enough to suggest he's done this for himself – because Colin knows he's never got this far with another man before – then Colin feels the first coil and jittery spike of onrushing orgasm and lets the filth, the endearments fall from his lips.

He makes it all wet between them, all hot and slick. He milks the last of it from his own dick and slides it down Bradley's, less coordinated, more determined, until Bradley's panting open-mouthed and pistoning his hips, swears breaking off into a breathy huff and he's coming, _coming_ , ramming his cockhead into the squeeze of Colin's fist then onto his belly, pulsing out hot spurts of come that Colin longs to lift to his tongue.

They are done after that, utterly spent. They don't get up, don't bother with the flannel or the elaborate ensuite. They wipe their hands off on one another or nearby eddies of sheet, untangle themselves only so far as to allow circulation in their respective limbs, and fall asleep blinking into one another's faces, dazed beyond smiling, but nonetheless content.

A sleep-slurred ' – Cols' is the last thing Colin remembers hearing before he drifts off. 

In the morning he'll wonder what it might have been appended to, that single syllable, the nickname that only Bradley – and only ever Bradley – gets away with. But it doesn't matter, not really, not when there's heaps of gorgeous breakfast delivered to the room and a note saying Bradley's gone for a run and on 'errands.' 

Colin's halfway through a chocolate pastry and a large bowl of strawberries when he remembers that Saint Patrick may have gone to the Yanks, but he's still good for second chances. He swallows his mouthful, grins, announces, 'I arise today!' to the empty room. Then he laughs and laughs, beats a hand on the mattress and thinks of how he'll explain it to Bradley when he gets back, wonders if he'll tell it tender first before turning it into a filthy joke or the other way round. 

The thing is though, he's got time on his side now. Time and saints.

* * *


End file.
